Winging It

Poetry prompt: FLY

Pretty, shiny, graceful and elegant
Ladies pretending to die to avoid sex
That's the dragon fly

Alighting high and low
To the screams and shudders of many
Is the humble house fly

Mandible in succulent flesh
Pathologic souvenirs of exotic places
Courtesy of the bot fly

Swarming hot and bearers
Of viruses that can't be eradicated
Power of the sand fly

Living more than the mythical day
Visiting carrions and shit all the way
That is the may fly

Yeah, most people wrote about the verb fly. My brain went noun first, fml.

You Can Never Outrun Your Shadow

Run, run, baby
Run, run
Til your heart gives out
And your knees break apart
Like a child's toy at the end of childhood

Run, run, baby
Run, run
Out of the cage of hope and denial
Black blue flesh hidden under thick skin
Craving the kiss of misery

Run, run, baby
Run, run
Til the end of the round Earth
Ending up where you began
Writing secrets with your tears

Run, run, baby
Run, run
Breath has deserted you
Deflated lungs scrying your death
Essence of the stars returning home

Journey End

Through dust and rainstorm he made his way. Anticipation cramping his belly, but his feet was fleet. He could feel the weight of the day falling away, freedom beckoning.

Soon he no longer need to breathe.

Poison my love

 Her mother's father gently tilted her head in the right direction. On a snowy branch her lover perched, an arrow notched at the ready. The silver and flint tip caught stray moonlight to twinkle like stars on a cloudless summer night. He was hunting for her kind.

A silent tear trailed down her cheek, followed by others. She wondered that the forest did not echo with the sound of her heart breaking. The pain robbed her limbs of vigor, her ears deaf to the world beyond her sorrow.

But the gentle prod on her upper meridian sent a shock of energy coursing through her limp body, clearing her mind. The clarity of duty made it easy to discard the false promises whispered by her lover, poisoning the roots of love entrenched in her heart.

She slipped away in the shadows with her mother's father. She needed time to regroup and marshal her thoughts. This time, the bastion of the garl will fall for good. She will make sure of it.

Inspired by art by Ashram entitled Hades and Persephone.

Quick dash

She stepped out of the awning of the building and inhaled deeply. Roast coffee, toasted bread, motor oil, the clogged drain a block over. The old leather jacket creaked across her shoulders as she hunched the light rain, her messenger style bag bulging at her side. A quick dash and she disappeared into a waiting cab on the curb.

He allowed the gauzy curtain to fall again. The tight clench in his belly slowly released. He exhaled slowly, his lungs deflating with each second, as though expelling an evil miasma.

Tonight, he can sleep again.

NB: Written during the course of this song. No edits.

Autophagy*

Picture by alizzzz is stolen from here. 

I taste like clouds.

The scissor didn't hurt as much as I'd thought. Its point slipped through the fibre of my skin delicately, elegantly. The blades snipped through me almost by its own volition, its jaws opening and closing with unexpected gentleness, separating the threads tenderly.

I taste like clouds.

I look down as the scissors progressed from the base of my belly, moving up and up, all the way to my throat. The blades stopped. My skin separated beneath the pressure of the incision.

I taste like clouds.

Almost immediately my stuffings fell out, like eager children after the bell rang, tumbling out the door that had confined them. My stuffings billowed out like exuberant clouds racing through the sky of a sunny afternoon. It fell out between my paw-feet, pillowy soft. I could feel the pressure within me ease. My knee gave way and I slumped against the wall.

I taste like clouds.

My paw-hand trembled as I scooped up what once gave me form and dimension. It seemed wrong to leave it wasted on the floor. I didn't know what to expect. It was soft and springy, the darker pink contrasted beautifully with the pale shell of my skin.

I taste like clouds.

I squeezed my hand-paw. I thought I'd feel a tug within, but nothing. My stuffing regained its former fluff, with a faint trace of the shape of my palm. The slight breeze from the fan made it quiver. I didn't notice as more spilled out of me, decorating the floor with whimsy.

I taste like clouds.

My stuffing crossed my lips. It was like a blissful sacrament of tenderness and joy. The sweetness was indescribable. It rested on my tongue for an eternity, before my jaws moved slowly, my teeth grinding my stuffing industriously, thoughtfully.

I taste like clouds.

The adults always tell you not to play with scissors, but they don't know what I know now: the scissors were a liberator. I am now free of the weight of my form and function.

I can just be.

I am.

Free.

*Title is taken from the biology term that describes "eating one's self". Cross-posted.

The Key to a Man's Heart is Through?

Scene 1

The garden lay in shadows; the sun had dipped below the top of the old mangosteen tree. The cool breeze was heavily scented with the jasmine blooms from the riotous border shrub, verdant green and white, interspersed with the subtler but more intoxicating ylang ylang from the massive tree next to the house.

The veranda was empty except for the white rattan and steel loungers. Wispy smoke curled lazily upward from the footed brass tray positioned neatly on the edge of the veranda. On the tray, seven different coloured and scented flowers, slices and whole kaffir limes, a brass bowl filled with water, and an empty spot that held a bowl of uncooked rice ringed a small earthen dish that bore the ember remains of the kemenyan.

A shadow passed by, carrying with it the scent of burnt incense and promises made in darkness.

Scene 2

Maria Callas was pouring out her heartbreak from the discreet speakers positioned to beautifully amplify the acoustics of the kitchen. The granite counter top under the bank of windows had been cleared, leaving only the gleaming coffeemaker and a porcelain jug filled with cheerful daisies and white chrysanthemums. The lacy curtains fluttered with the lazy evening breeze.

The air was fragrant with the scent of caramelising meat, the oven's lambent light illuminating the fowl reposing on the cast iron pan, sizzling in its juices. Turmeric and lemongrass bubbled in the creamy sauce on the stove. An old fashioned copper pot was steaming rice gently next to it. The simmering broth in the slow cooker released a rich, citrusy smell, invigorating and indolent.

The crystal plate on the kitchen island held crisp zucchini and carrot sticks, matte green long beans cut military-straight of equal length, crispy cabbage leaves sliced thin and curls of home made mung bean sprouts. In the center of the verdant arrangement was a matching bowl filled to the brim with peanut sauce; studded with crunchy nuts, sweetened with palm sugar to counter the heat from the chillies.

She stood at the sink methodically rinsing the pots and pans before placing them in the dishwasher. Her gauzy lilac kebaya was protected by an apron with The World’s Best Cook emblazoned on it, the floral embroideries draped over her ripe breasts water-stain free. Her full, sensuous hips were wrapped in Javanese batik carefully pleated and cinched with a silver belt, the dark hued cotton hitting mid ankle perfectly. Her dark hair was pulled back in a stark upswept do, held in place with silver combs. The quivering cucuk sanggul of intricate silver and garnet flowers from her mother-in-law completed the style. Her bare feet made no noise on the terracotta tiles except for the discreet clinks of the gleaming gold ankle rings, heavily chased with motifs of mythical beasts of the Nusantara.

The timer chimed, indicating that the fowl was done. She protected her hands with an old dish towel before retrieving the cast iron pan from the oven. The crispy skin of the bird were perfectly browned and crispy, the juices from the roast bubbling gently at the bottom with the marinade that had dripped from its flesh. The fowl was transferred to a chopping board, light from the overhead recessed lighting flashed on the cleaver as she dismembered it with skill. She arranged the roast on the silver trimmed ceramic dish, its fragile filigree belying its sturdiness. The gravy streamed into a matching boat from the ladle. She ground the Sumatran coffee beans, measured the water into the coffeemaker reservoir and turned it on. She sprinkled chopped cilantro on the soup in the tureen, the fresh herb adding a sparkle to the decadent fragrance in the kitchen.

All was set.

Scene 3

The steam from the overhead jets fogged the mirror. He stood under the stream, allowing the force of the pumped heated water to loosen the muscles of his shoulders and back. It seemed to him that the commute to and back from the office was taking longer and longer. He flexed both ankles and feet, trying to ease the cramp from driving.

He dried himself and walked out of the damp bathroom to find his clothes laid neatly on the bed. The cool cotton was comfortably loose. He cinched the drawstring, brushed his hair, and spritz a bit of the perfume she favoured on his neck. 

The delicious aroma from the kitchen teased his nose as he hung his towel. The weariness from the day's drudge evaporated; he could feel the blood coursing energetically through his veins. The heavy teak door stayed open as he exited, following the scent trail.

Scene 4

She had put on her favourite gamelan album on the sound system. The bass-y notes of the brass instruments were soothing and atmospheric. The lighting in the dining room was turned low; the shadows dispelled by the strategically placed fat white candles. Her homemade potpourri provided the background notes of the aroma in the dining room. The table gleamed with mahogany polish underneath the Belgian lace draped over it, her best damask place setting protecting the fragile lace from the porcelain dishes over it.

Ice cubes clinked in the crystal goblets, fat condensation hugging the cool clear surface before sliding down because of its weight, obeying gravity. The cold liquid could not quench the thirst burning in him but he sipped anyway. Before seating him, she pulled him to the side board where the brass wisuhan was; her long fingers washing his, digit by digit, from base to tip. She  pressed her thumb at the base of his, the heat it ignited was a lower hunger than the one induced by the dishes she had prepared.

He learned to eat with his fingers when he married her. She laughed at his earlier clumsy attempts and cheerfully kissed away the inevitable mess at the corners of his mouth. By now he was an expert, ignoring the subtle burn of the roasted fowl when he pinched the tender flesh, pulling it away from the bone. He swabbed the piece in its accompanying gravy, neatly balling it with the rice and vegetable before popping it into his mouth.  He sipped the clear soup occasionally, the delicate balance of spice and cool lime clarifying the palate. 

“Aren’t you having any rice?” he asked. 

She had shaped the rice on his plate with a pleated bowl, but had none on her own.

“I’m on carbs reduction, dear,” she smiled, her curved lips wet with the sip of the liquid in the goblet. Her strong white teeth crunched on a carrot dripping with the peanut dip, her long tongue swiping an errant drop on her littlest finger. The raw vegetables contrasted with the creamy, spicy sweet dip and seemed to be the only thing that she was having.

In contrast, he was ravenous. The fluffy starchy grains of the perfectly cooked rice were a beautiful match to the rest of the dishes, balancing out the richness of flavours. Each chew was like a burst of delight on his tongue, each swallow decadent. She prepared his plate for each helping, refusing his assistance when she sashayed to the kitchen to add the rice. When his plate was clean, he licked his fingers, sucking each flavour to the last drop.

Again she washed his hand at the wisuhan. She poured the clean water slowly, using her soapy fingers to remove any oily residue on his hand. The massaging movement was strong yet gentle, and it aroused him beyond bearing. Her calm demeanour betrayed nothing as she gently patted his hand dry with clean linen, using an edge to wipe at his lips.

The meal ended with cups of fragrant black coffee and tiny pearlescent jellies and fruit. He sat still, sipping his coffee as she talked, her hands waving about gracefully. The meal had set in his belly comfortably, which was surprising considering the amount he had eaten. He watched her, and waited.

She rose from her chair and placed the dirty dishes on the sideboard. A tudung saji covered the leftovers.

“Shall we?”

His chair almost fell over in his haste to follow her.

Scene 5

He carefully crept out of bed and retrieved his laptop, and settled down on his favourite overstuffed wingback chair at the corner of their sitting room. His fingers trembled as he scrolled through the archived feed of their home security system.

He clicked on the outdoor cam folder and chose the backyard. The azure evil-dispelling eye from Turkey that hung over the veranda door hid a high definition camera. Impatiently he dragged the feed to the desired time, the sun moving across the sky and every movement captured by the camera moved at high speed in a comical manner silently. He paused at 1838 hours when she stepped out with the brass tray laden with the ritual offering. He slowed down the playback and savoured every movement on the screen.

The strike of the match to ignite the kemenyan.

The flare of the flame.

Her full lips moving as she chanted the incantation.

His heart was beating a staccato behind his sternum as she disrobed on screen, revealing the rich curves of her body, smooth skin gleaming in the low lights of the dying sun. Strong legs wide apart as she stepped over the brass tray, the smoke of the kemenyan writhing upwards to the apex of her thighs. She pushed a long strand behind her ear, her lips unceasing her chant as the kemenyan smoke stroked her between her legs and flowed down again to stroke over the white grains of the uncooked rice in the bowl.

He switched to the kitchen cam. She had prepped everything else except the rice. She measured the water over the grains with her long finger, and set the copper pot on the stove. It took an expert to cook rice on a stove top with not a single grain dry or singed. He could still recall the taste of the fat, fluffy rice; a hint of salt to flavour the steamy starchy aroma. The chicken and gravy and vegetable were also perfectly done, but he could only remember the texture of the rice, sliding smoothly down his throat.

“Do you want the key, baby?”

The head on his shoulders and between his legs jerked upwards. Her tall firm figure was silhouetted by the light from the dressing room that she often left on low. His mouth went dry.

“Yes, Mistress.” He wanted to shift his genitals to a more comfortable position but knew that it was pointless. Besides, she could see him do it and may decide to keep the key a lot longer. Anticipation and hard won submission stayed his hand.

“Then put your toy away and come here. You have been a bad, bad boy, haven’t you?” she murmured and turned away. Obedient, he rose, the Macbook abandoned on a side table and followed her.

p/s It was my writing circle pals' idea for the nasi kangkang reinvention. You may thank them for it. The writing prompt: A sensual meal.

Faithlessness

Note: This is a first draft that is a part of a longer story. Drafts posted may (is definitely) not be in sequence.

The cool air from the airconditioner wafted over her nudity, but the chill didn't bother her. The darkened room was quiet, punctuated by the hum of the climate control system and his faint but steady snore. She pulled her knees up and rested her chin on the knobby protrusion of her joint. There was a gap between her curtains, the lights of the city twinkling beyond the glass like stationary fireflies.

Next to her ______ slept on. He was what the Cosmo sex quiz called a flopper, often falling unconscious almost immediately after sex. There were a few times when she had to push him off, the muscled frame a hefty weight that can suffocate an unwary lover. He was sprawled on over half of the bed, the twisted sheets half drawn to his chest.

She shifted her position to study him. He was a long one, reaching 6 feet in his socks, wide of shoulder, strong of limb. He was fond of pitting himself against others physically; be it tennis, racquetball, football or volleyball, and it honed his muscles to an athletic toughness that was attractive underneath his clothes. Tanned from the outdoors, his inner thighs and buttocks were pale, indicating his northern Indian ancestry. His eyelids were closed, dense, long lashes sweeping the high bones of his cheeks. Puffs of air escaped his parted lips, exposing the edge of his straight, white teeth.

Such a pretty, pretty man.

Such a lousy, lousy man.

Unconsciously she rubbed the center of her chest. The pain had subsided long ago, but sometimes its echoes caught her unaware, making her eyes burn from the force of holding back her tears. She didn't quite know why he's back where he was on her bed, she knew that it's temporary, nothing with him ever lasted. It felt odd to be physically sated, her body languourous from the multiple orgasms he'd enthusiastically wrung out of her; but the wheels of her mind focussed with brutal clarity on the deep unspoken anger within.

She swung her legs off the bed and made her way to the bathroom. All jets on. The water was hot and steaming, almost stinging her tender skin. She squirted a generous amount of soap on the loofah and briskly scrubbed herself, paying scrupulous attention to remove every trace of his touch on her flesh. She shampooed her hair twice and used the leave in serum to condition the long locks. She brushed her teeth vigorously and gargled with the mouthwash.

She exited the bathroom clad in a robe and turned on all the lights in the bedroom. She ignored his sleepy protests, extracted underpants, a sweat pants and a t shirt. The design on the front of the shirt has faded, but it's soft and comforting and she needed all the comfort she can get right then.

"Wassup?" he mumbled, bracing himself on his elbows, squinting against the brightness. He blinked blearily at the sight of her dressed and yawned so wide, his jaws popped. His position threw all those lovely muscles into stark relief, presenting a pretty tableau. Italian masters would kill to sculpt him, she thought dispassionately.

"It's time for you to go. Thanks for dropping by," she said, standing beside the open door pointedly.

He licked his lips at how the soft cotton clung to her damp skin. He sat up and patted the place on the bed next to him invitingly with a smile. "What about a second round? Let me make you scream in ecstasy a few times more."

She didn't return his smile. "No, thanks. I need to sleep and I want you to go right now."

"C'mon," he started to cajole but her stiff posture told him that his efforts would be to no avail. He sighed and clambered off the bed.

"Fine," he said with a huff, raising a hand in her direction in surrender and made his way to the bathroom. Behind the closed door she could hear the toilet being flushed and the shower running. She picked up his clothes that were strewn all over the room and dumped them on the bed. The clothes that she wore earlier were collected with the rest of her laundry and she took them to the washer. The load wasn't full but once the bed linens were added later, she can start the wash cycle.

She turned on the television and flipped the channels randomly, finally settling in for HBO. Some action movie was on, there were explosions aplenty but oddly no gore. Leaving the characters to fight out their differences on screen, she returned to the kitchen and nuked a mug of water with an Earl Grey bag in it. Her grandmother would be appalled at the tea desecration, but she wanted something hot now and did not want to wait for the kettle to boil. She took her mug to the breakfast counter and pulled the sugar container closer to her seat.

"Kicking me out, eh?" his voice was low, the quiet inflection hiding a wealth of unsaid emotions. She stirred her tea desultorily, pulling out the tea bag and throwing it into the sink in an expert overhand toss. The soggy bag landed with a dull splat.

"Yup. Thanks for scratching my itch. Don't let the door hit you on the way out," she sipped the hot brew meditatively. He dressed back in the ____________ and ___________ that he wore earlier in the evening. Although crumpled, he still looked like he just stepped out of a fashion spread.

He said nothing and leaned on the counter facing her, studying her nonchalance. But when she raised her eyes, he dropped his gaze, his cheeks ruddy with embarrassment. Sounds of gunfire from the television set broke the silence.

"Are you going to tell Alena?" he asked, seemingly fascinated by the grain of the granite table top, hands stuffed in his pockets. His feet were bare, she suspect the bulge in his left pocket to be his socks.

"No," she said, taking another sip. "What happened here has nothing to do with her."

He exhaled audibly, shifting his weight slightly and nodded. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me. I like her and I don't want to hurt her. It's bad enough that she'll marry an asshole like you, I don't need to compound things," she rose, mug in hand to flop on the overstuffed couch in front of the television. Her eyes appeared to be watching the screen but she took in nothing, her inward gaze hiding her feelings.

He moved closer to her but kept his distance. The keys in his pocket jiggled, betraying his agitation. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I hurt you. I ... didn't mean to. But we just ..." his shoulder jerked, his toes clenching the deep weave of her black and white rug.

"Yeah, I got it. I'm not gonna be the woman who'll guide you to Paradise," her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

"It's not you ... I ... need her. She  ..." he appeared to be casting around for words. "She makes me a better man. She makes me want to be better. It's easy with you, but it's not the same."

"Yeah, a good woman for a good man and vice versa. Does she know that you're not a good man?" her right brow arched disdainfully. Did you not know I once harboured hopes that you will be the one to lead me to Paradise? Did you not know I once hung my dreams of a life together into old age on you? Did you know and did not care anyway? Did you?

He reddened again and said nothing.

"So, what now?" he asked.

"You go home and do whatever you want. Me, I'm going to be hanging out with your fiancee tomorrow and making a mural."

He flinched.

"You don't have to worry. I'm not going to blab to anyone about your lapse tonight. We'll pretend it didn't happen, just a time out of time. Consider it a send off. Vaya con dios," she fluttered the hand not holding the mug.

He knew her well enough that there's nothing else to say. He was relieved in some ways, wretched in others. But he was grateful that she's giving him a way out of a potentially sticky situation and decided to leave before he shoved his foot deeper into his gullet. With a polite nod in her direction, he made his way to the entrance hall, slipping on his trainers. He closed the door quietly and left.

She rose from the sofa, abandoning her tea and opened the door to the balcony. The night air was chilly even during the hot season at the elevation of her apartment. She leaned against the cold ballustrade and looked down at the empty streets. A growly engine coughed and she could see his Cheyenne leaving the parking of her apartment. The brake lights lit once when he approached the intersection and the vehicle disappeared around the corner.

Her eyes were painfully dry as she raised her gaze to the moonless sky. She was like the Alison Moyet song, all cried out. Inside she felt hollow. Maybe she no longer have a heart, if everyone who left her took a piece along with them. He was just another man in a long series of men who left. Men always left. From her father, to Jake, and down to him, they all left. There will be another man, she knew. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but there will be another man who will come into her life, and leave again when it suits them.

The brightness of the city lights obscured the stars, just like how her smiles hid her fragmented heart. She made a moue at her sentimentality and went back inside, closing the door firmly on all her hopes and dreams of making a life with someone else.

Ugly Girl

I've been attending a short course for creative writing. This piece was prompted by the video below:



Usual disclaimer: Fictitious depiction of fictitious people, not related to anyone living or dead etc etc. And no, I've never been to New York City.

(crossposted)

*****************************************************************

Charlie was nibbling my toes, working his way up my right leg, paying attention to a most delicious spot on the back of my knees before repeating with my left leg. Then suddenly, he started lavishing attention on my chin. Come on, Charlie, that’s not an erogenous zone for me, you know that.

I woke up to Percy’s rough tongue cleaning the drool off my chin; I could barely breathe thanks to his 15 pounds bulk on my chest. Gently, I pushed him off of me and wiped my chin with the sheet. The watery light of early summer penetrated the gauzy curtains of my loft windows, illuminating the mess I made when I tossed out the remainder of Charlie’s things. I missed Charlie when I was horny; although he’s such a pontificating prick, he’s really one of the best lovers I’ve had. Generous to a fault; that’s Charlie. Must be his left wing tendencies.

I stretched until my shoulder joints popped before heading to the kitchen to get Percy his kibble. My kitchen was like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, thanks to the long hours I had been putting in since last month to complete the new ad project for Givenchy. The art director was a pain in the ass, but he’s a mad genius at crafting images that make people open their wallets and demand that you take their money. He not only worked crazy hours, he worked at ALL hours. Thank God that bastard was no longer my problem. The client seemed happy with the results, so I can expect a fat bonus in my paycheque this month. I made a mental note to swing by Kate Spade to see if the purple patent leather stilettos that I eyed last month were still available in size 6.

Percy twined his sinuous body around my ankles, purring at the sound of the can opener. I bent to pour his food into his dish, ruffling his Angora-soft fur around the ruff of his neck, not covered by the jewelled collar I got from Bloomingdale’s. I sipped my first java of the day while idly scrolling through my diary app. Oh shit. I’m supposed to have Ellora, Jimmy, Devon and Trey over for dinner tonight. The only thing edible in my apartment (apart from Percy’s prime organic kibble) was a slice of Gruyere and a suspect-looking bagel in the fridge. I slid the bagel with the Gruyere on it into the toaster and sat at the counter to plan the dinner menu.

After completing my shopping list, I hit the shower and dressed to go to Piscary’s, my favourite whole-foods grocer on West 67^th. I had a look at my reflection in the hallway mirror before leaving, with a last pat to smooth my artless braid that made me look like a Teutonic model gone farm chic, I locked my door.

Piscary’s was still deserted at this relatively early hour. I snagged a shopping cart and begun grabbing the things I needed to make dinner. I know I don’t look it, but I am actually an excellent chef. The three months I spent in Paris after high school were not all about making goo goo eyes at cute French boys. I was considering the truffle oil from Tuscany when I heard a familiar voice.

For an instant I flashbacked to this morning’s dream, before I was rudely woken by Percy. Before I could enact a strategic retreat, his familiar lanky figure appeared around the end of the aisle, pushing a half full cart. There was a woman beside him, but I only had eyes for Charlie. His hair was the familiar, shiny mop that I secretly envied, the torso toned by rock climbing carelessly sheathed in an old college ball team tee. His cargo shorts exposed muscular calves lightly dusted with dark hair, his size twelve feet shod in the flip flops he bought when we were in Rio last summer. Jerking myself out of my paralysis, I pulled my cart to execute a neat three point turn in the other direction when I heard, “Ashlee?”

        
Busted. I pretended to just notice him and faked a start. “Charlie? Hi!” My lips curved in a wide, semi-sincere smile. He was close enough that I could smell his after shave, the Davidoff I bought for him last Christmas. He still smelled as good as ever, the rat bastard. 

His dark eyes crinkled at the corner as he grinned at me. It looked like he wasn’t as broken hearted as I had hoped when I kicked him out of my life. He even had a fresh tan, for God’s sake, clearly he had gone somewhere outdoorsy for a good time, not moping in his apartment crying his eyes out over me. He grabbed his companion’s hand to pull her closer to me, a long arm curved around her body for a cuddle.

“You look just as good as ever, doll. Hey, I want you to meet someone. Jay, this is Ashlee, my ex. Ashlee, this is Jay,” he beamed. Really, does this man not know the etiquette of introducing his more gorgeous ex to his current girlfriend? Where was the expected awkwardness? The longing glances to gorgeous ex (i.e. me), with undercurrents of “Take me back, Ashlee!” to enhance the moment?

            
“Hi, Ashlee. I’m Jay. Nice to meet you,” said Charlie’s companion, her voice a mellow alto with a slight smoker’s rasp. I took a good look at her, studying my replacement.

In a word, she was round. Big, round, brown eyes behind John Lennon-style glasses in a round face that topped a round body. Her boobs stretched a t-shirt that said, “No Child Left Behind” with a background of some white plane and little children running away. Probably some hipster political statement, but whatever. Her HUGE hips were accentuated by the pleated, ankle length gauzy skirt, the peach clashing with the grey of her t-shirt. The chartreuse paint on her toes was chipped; my God doesn’t this woman know to get a pedicure? Judging by her haphazard curly hair and dressing, she’d probably be appalled to pay for a decent mani pedi; it looked like a lousy home done paint job.

“Hi,” I replied without enthusiasm. This must be his rebound girlfriend, that’s why Charlie wasn’t so discriminating. A floozy with no style was the best that he could do? Hah.

“Jay and I were picking up a few things to take to Mom’s.”

To take to his Mom? That witch hated me with the intensity of a thousand suns and the feeling was mutual. I’ve only ever gone to her house ONCE for Thanksgiving and it was hell.

“Yeah, it’s Kennedy’s birthday and I promised that I’d make her lunch and cake,” the way that woman smiled up to Charlie was positively sickening. I could feel my hands curling around the shopping cart handle to stop me from clawing her eyes out. I couldn’t believe that Charlie’s bratty niece had taken a shine to her. I bought that kid the latest Bratz doll for Christmas and she sniffed at me with a barely audible thank you; but she liked this woman enough to ask her to cook her birthday treat?

“How nice,” I commented with syrupy sweet insincerity. God, I need to get away from these two. If I didn’t need the stuff in my cart for the dinner tonight, I would’ve dumped it and walked away right now. This must be Hell.

“I saw that you were looking at Perrini’s truffle oil? You should give Alligheri’s a try; they’re a little cheaper but the truffle scent is more intense,” Jay offered. Like I would take her advice for anything. I would ignore her cries for me to stop, drop and roll even if I were on fire.

“It’s okay, I’ve used Perrini’s before and it won me blue ribbon three years in a row at the gourmand festival in the Village,” I snarked back.

“Really? That’s fabulous. Charlie told me what a great cook you are. Me, I just stick to the staples,” she laughed self-deprecatingly.

“I think we better make a move, Jay. The party is supposed to start at two,” Charlie darted an uneasy glance at me. I guess he finally felt the undercurrents.

“Yeah, you’re right, hon. Have to let the beer batter breathe before we fry the chicken anyway. It’s been great meeting you, Ashlee,” she smiled and extended her hand.

I would rather pick up an angry cobra than her hand but my Mama had instilled lady-like qualities in her only daughter so I reached across to give it a half-hearted pump. Her palms were warm and slightly calloused; God, didn’t the woman ever moisturise?

“Likewise. See you around, Charlie, Jay …” I managed a smile. With a wave, they left the aisle, having added a bottle of extra virgin olive oil to their cart they headed to the checkout counter. I don’t think Charlie’s ever had his arms around my waist quite so protectively the way he did with that woman’s thick waist, back fat undulating gently above her skirt’s waistband.

I sniffed back the tears that unexpectedly welled. Charlie Westen wasn’t the richest or the best looking boyfriend I’ve had, but he was one of the sweetest and gentlest. Sometimes his gentleness made me grit my teeth, the way he’d let people over take him on the road, or letting an old man cut in front of him in the line. He was a genuinely kind person and was possibly one of the best men I’ve ever known (and I’ve known quite a lot, biblically and otherwise). But I don’t think I’m meant to end up with a boy scout, especially one who’s very vocal about his loss of faith in Obama.

But the rogue tears did not fall, and I refuse to mourn for Charlie any more. I have broken up with him, and I will move ON. Jimmy promised that he’d try to bring his squash partner that I’ve eyed a few times along to dinner tonight and even if he didn’t make my heart flutter, but at least he should have the stamina to make things interesting between the sheets.

I pushed my cart towards the frozen goods aisle. Time to pick up the ingredients for my to die-for crème brulee. I have guests to impress and no time to ponder over what ifs. I firmly pushed any and all thoughts of Charlie and his new girlfriend to the back of my mind and determinedly continued my food shopping.

The face of evil

Post dinner is the time to clean up the kitchen and wash up the myriad plates and cooking paraphernalia. Last night's meal generated a more than usual dishes to be cleared thanks to the prep required for my sister's birthday dinner. For a simple meal of pan-seared salmon with lemon and cilantro sauce, buttered steamed vegetables and mashed potato (okay, there's lemon cake pudding for dessert as well), there was an insane number of pots, plates etc etc etc to be washed.

The birthday girl helped to stow away the left overs while I played with detergent and water at the sink. My niece was proclaiming faux messages written in invisible ink on the Thai place mat while keeping us company. She stentoriously declared that my sister's boss requested that she see him in his office on Monday in order for him to give her one hundred dollars.

"Hey, my boss is off on Monday. He won't be in to give me the money," said my sister indignantly.

"It's not nice to raise people's hopes for nothing," I rejoinded. "That's a terrible thing to do," I told my niece.

"Of course. I am evil," was her dead pan and spontaneous response.

Note: The picture included was her circa 2009. She has since lost the curls but not the cheeky grin.

 *cross-posted at Cowbird*

Free verse

Loneliness can keep haunting you ...
    Buried in your psyche ...
         Loving the journey ...
              Dreading the destiny ...

Stolen faith, lost tenderness

Buried under water ...


Aku pun tak tahu mana datangnya verse emo kat atas tu.

*tekup muka*

Gig

The tiny club reverberated with claps, whistles and chants of "More! More!" as the last clash of the cymbals died out. Zed was flushed with excitement as he tossed the last of the souvenirs to the audience. It took the band another 15 minutes to take their bows and leave the stage while Hadi, Muniz and I began unplugging and putting away the speakers, mixers etc backstage. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Tee grinning at me, rivulets of sweat turning his bootleg Happy Tree Friends t-shirt transparent.

"How did we do?" he shouted. I flinched and removed the earmuffs protecting my sensitive ears from the blasting music. His breath was like bellows, adrenaline from another great gig coursing through his veins.

"Superb, except the third set when you lost your drumstick," I grinned back at him. We finished packing all the instruments in record time while Zed and Layla finished their discussion with the club's manager.

"This is why I love having you as a roadie, Shortstack," said Hadi as I stowed the last of the speakers in the van. "I don't get back aches."

I made a face at him and slammed the van's door shut. Silent Muniz handed me a frosty bottle of water that I gratefully chugged down.

"I mean, seriously, what do you eat? If I don't see it with my own eyes, I'd never believe a midget like you could heft so much heavy equipments with your own bare hands," he tugged the hem of his Grateful Dead tee to mop up his sweat.

"Quit calling me shortstack, Bean Pole. And I ate all my vegetables, just like my mama told me to." That bald-faced lie was greeted by a whoop of laughter by the guys. Everyone knows I'm a notorious meat eater; no greens ever made past my lips. Layla was fond of telling people that I'm the proof that the caveman diet works; I was born to consume the wooly mammoth.

"Hey, hey everybody, we got paid tonight," Zed waved the cheque that the club's manager cut for the band at us. Layla snatched it from him and stuffed it into her large tote.

"Gimme that. You always forget to bank it in or threw it away with your cigarette receipts," she groused. Zed was well-known for his absent-mindedness in things not concerning his guitars or song-writing. He grinned at her unrepentantly, a flash of teeth more glamourous than a Calvin Klein underwear model.

A couple of teenage girls hovering near the van tentatively approached us, CDs and marker pen in hand.

"Hi, Zed! Can we have your autograph?" they chorused in unison. You could almost see their knees melt as Zed directed his megawatt smile in their direction. A few other fans loitering nearby also crept closer as Zed chatted with the girls, signing their CDs and posing for pictures. Muniz obligingly took a few shots to be included in the band's website.

I slipped behind the wheels of the van and cranked the engine. The 12-year old Unser roared and then purred as the engine idled Hadi and Tee slipped into the van; with all the equipment crammed in there was only enough space for 1 person in the back. The Unser belonged to Tee's dad, but I drove it more often than he did.

"See you guys at Raju's!" I hollered. Layla raised a hand as she walked with Muniz to his well-loved Mitsubishi Lancer. He souped up the engine himself, rebuilding parts of the body with his siblings in his uncle's workshop. His sister, Manisah, designed the flames decorating the hood and side panels of the lime green pimp mobile.

"Hey guys, wait for me!" Zed ran to the Lancer after the final photos were snapped by the starry-eyed fans and hopped into the back seat.

It was our post-gig tradition to have supper at Raju's and rehash the good, the bad and the ugly that happened during the gig. Hadi would take down the technical notes in his rubberband-bound notebook, the lined pages filled with his neat script. Muniz would be snapping photos to be added to the webpage photo album in-between putting away at least 2 paper tosai, 1 roti telur and teh tarik. The discussion and laughing arguments would carry on for at least an hour before we make our way home.

I walked slowly to my flat, the half moon illuminating the stretches of pavement where the streetlight had given up the fight. My Doc Martens barely made any sound. I shoved my hands into my pocket, jangling my keys. The air was cool and sweet, the usual city stench barely making its presence felt.

A lot of people would call me foolish for walking home in my neighbourhood at all hours; just two streets over there was a knifing between two rival pimps the night before last. But I never felt frightened walking among predatory types.

After all, why should a tiger be fearful to stalk this concrete jungle?

(Picture stolen from here)